I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic
by Cinvxten
Summary: The Bible tells me so? Hold your four horsemen of the Apocolypse for just a second... when was the last time the Bible actually spoke to you? For Stan it was, well... just yesterday. Technically, it was God he spoke with. But damn, is He an asshole!
1. God's a Chain Smoker

I was feeling very nostalgic for Joan of Arcadia, and actually got this idea while on the way home from seeing Spring Awakening. I saved it as a draft text on my phone and then wrote about it this weekend. At first, I didn't think it was really going to fly, but the more I worked into it, the more crazy ideas I had, the more I thought, "Hey, what the hell, it doesn't have to be a master piece, I'll just make it a quickie." Well... this quickie now looks to be about a 5 maybe 7 chapter dedication. We'll see. Tell me if it's worth continuing or not.

**Disclaimer: "Comet... it tastes like Listerine. Comet... it makes your mouth turn green. Comet... it makes you vomit. So buy some Comet and vomit today!" (In case you didn't know, that was German for: "I don't own South Park, so don't sue me you cheeky bastards." Maybe - just maybe - you should learn how to speak German. Then you would know these things...)**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

"Hey… Hey! You dropped your wallet!"

Stan meandered to a stop, hefting his backpack over his shoulder to keep it balanced. He was annoyed at having to actually talk to someone. All he wanted to do is go home; he had long ago been stricken with a sever case of Senioritis and with graduation only a week away, it had been flaring up. But it was a nice enough day, the summer breeze balmy and shallow. He supposed he could spare a few seconds of his time.

The guy trotted up to Stan, a goofy smile spreading his lips. He took a moment to catch his breath with a low chuckle and flicked his brown hair out of his eyes. His irises were stunning; either an Athena gray or an icy blue. It was hard to tell, and even harder not to get lost in them. Stan had to blink a few times to break the trance.

"You dropped this." He bit his lip and grinned again, holding out a worn and ragged wallet. He was wearing a black and white striped shirt with a dark gray vest. He also had one fingerless glove on his right hand, and Stan glanced at it in haughty disbelief before taking the wallet back. The teen – he must have been Stan's age or maybe even younger – wiped his hands on his faded blue jeans. They had sharpie scrawled over them… where there weren't already rips and tears in the fabric.

With a discreet pat, Stan checked his back pocket and raised an eye brow with indignation. "This isn't my wallet," he explained. His wallet wasn't brown, but a dull green. And it wasn't made of leather, but hemp (it had been tailor made especially for him). He offered the thing back, but the kid wouldn't take it. Stan shook the wallet wildly with impatience, "It's not mine!"

The weird boy scrunched up his face and crossed his arms over his chest. "But… isn't your name Stan Marsh?" Stan growled under his breath, staving off the urge to check his watch. Couldn't he just go home? No, he was too courteous to just leave a guy hanging. He opened the wallet and checked all the pockets until finally:

"Look, see here? This ID says 'Luke Matthews.'"

"So you _are_ Stan Marsh!" the kid simpered coyly, nodding his head in triumph.

Stan stepped back to assess the situation, his mouth open as he pondered. He pointed at the kid, trying to find the right words. "Is this… is this all just a ploy to get to know my name? What, are you hitting on me, or something?"

Shrug. No answer. Stan was merely treated to another knowing grin and a sparkle in the boy's eyes. Stan sighed and shoved the wallet into the guy's chest and turned away. Enough of this nonsense. The boy just let the thing fall to the ground with a slap, never once taking his gaze from Stan.

Stan kept on his way home with diligence, already forgetting about the incident. He had more important matters to wrap his mind around. Such as Kyle's recent obsession with his Jewish religion. They had been friends for so long, but never once had spirituality came into conflict with their relationship before. And as of yet, they hadn't truly fought over it. More like debates, really. Still, Stan didn't like the third degree questions that he didn't even have the background to answer. His family was technically Roman Catholic but… well… yeah. He was afraid this new hobby of Kyle's would drive them into separate stereotypes that didn't accurately define them anyway.

It was only by chance that Stan noticed the steady echo keeping in time with his footsteps, and his ears perked up with suspicion. He whirled around on his feet, hoping to take the kid by surprise and gain a psychological advantage. But the guy didn't even flinch. If anything, his smile just grew mockingly wider, stretching into a thin line across his face.

"Stop following me," Stan commanded. Thinking that was the end of it, he continued on his way. He didn't take four steps before he realized that his order had had gone unheeded. Ugh, of course.

"Okay!" he shouted, pivoting again, holding up his hands in faux surrender. "Do you have a name or should I just keep referring to you as 'Creepy Stalker Dude?'"

The boy hmphed and pulled out a cigarette. Real cool dude, you're obviously too young to be smoking. He put it between his lips, but didn't light it. "You can call me God."

Stan's face dropped in a mix of frustration and fear. "Are you… are you gonna like… rape me or something? Like one of the sociopathic serial killers? Cause that's totally old news – that happens in South Park like, every other week." He didn't particularly feel threatened; he was obviously bigger than this boy, towering a full head above him. And his gut didn't have that twisty feeling you'd think you'd get when faced with an aggressor. So he deemed it safe to be at least a little snippy.

"Yeah," the kid huffed, unconvincingly, taking the cigarette from his mouth between his two fingers. "I'm gonna drag you into that alley there, and rape you."

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed, dude."

"Nothing is ever _simple_ with you, Stan," the kid chuckled, leaning against the nearest fence as if he owned the damn thing. "You only ever understand two languages: sarcasm and faggy poetry."

"Look, kid," Stan growled, his new walking buddy becoming highly abrasive. "Do you want me to beat the shit out of you? Is that why you're here? You've got some sort of… S and M fetish?"

"No," the guy answered shortly. "But I know you've got a blood fetish. Little morbid, Stan. Just a little. I'm not entirely sure Kyle would be up for that kinda thing."

Stan went rigid. "What did you say?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret," he hastily replied, waving his hands in front of Stan's face in order to catch his attention. "I don't like repeating myself, okay? So listen up when I'm talking to you, boy, and we can avoid the whole fire and brimstone phase."

"You can't talk to me like that," Stan half yelled, half laughed. "You're not God. I've met God before, way back in 2000. God looks like a hippo frog bear."

"Huh," the kid breathed, placing the cigarette just to his lips, lost in thought. "I could have sworn I looked more like a man bear pig…."

"You are so annoying!"

"I remember that, though! You were asking about your period. Peer pressure got you convinced you hadn't hit puberty yet. Which it hadn't, of course, but I bet you're satisfied now, Mister 18 year old. Hey, you can thank me later for 'bestowing' you so well, if you catch my drift." He elbowed Stan playfully in the ribs before lowering his hand and placing a solid pat onto the other's crotch. "Lots of guys would be jealous."

"God, don't touch me, you pervert!"

"Aw, Stan," the guy pouted. "You don't have to be so formal when addressing me, I answer to many names. But anyway, you took those hormone pills just to fit in. You had _breasts_, dude!"

"So what?" Stan shrieked, feeling his face grow red with an embarrassed blush. "It's not anything special that you know about that! It was the fucking new millennium, it was televised, half the world saw me make an idiot out of myself. If you wanted to impress me with your omnipotence, then you'll have to try harder. _Everybody_ knows about that!"

"Yeah… cause it was hilarious!"

"Okay, this is really getting old. You're just a freaky little stalker kid who's an attention whore, and probably has an abusive, alcoholic father, negligent mother, and has to act out just to feel loved."

The kid put his finger to his chin and pursed his lips. "I think… I think you just described yourself."

"Shut up! You're not funny, so quit joking around!"

"This is no joke," the boy assured, holding out his hands in the universal sign for stop. But his tone was far too insolent for Stan's liking. This kid was rude, conceited, and total nut job. "You want jokes? I can do jokes. The dinosaurs, now that was a huge 'just kidding' moment. The uh… the whole genocide punch line got a little lost on them, but, what can you do?"

"Look, asshole, stop following me!" Stan turned his back but was wrenched again to his previous spot by one unusually strong arm.

"No, no," the guy chastised. "I didn't say you could go yet. Now, stop me if you've heard this one: so…" He placed the cigarette back into his mouth to free up his hands for gestures. "A Catholic priest is in Confession, right? All of a sudden, he really has to take a shit. He starts to panic, right? Slowly, he peeks out of the box and sees a huge ass fucking line, all the way out the door, of people waiting to confess! And all the while he really, really has to go to the bathroom. Finally, he just can't take it anymore. He covertly flags down the janitor. He tells the janitor to quickly trade places with him for ten minutes, be his stand in, you know? At first the guy is doubtful, but the Father writes him a list of all the things anybody could possibly confess for and their penance – thirty hails maries, all that shit. The janitor agrees and he gets in the box, and to his surprise, it's pretty easy. Then, one woman comes in. She says, 'Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I gave my husband's brother a blowjob!' The janitor freaks out, right? The priest didn't write anything down about a blowjob. At the end of his rope, he peeks his head out the door and calls down the alter boy, and he says, 'Hey, alter boy! What's the Father give for a blowjob?' The kid looks at him and says, "Two Hershey bars and a Coke.'"

The boy smiled, trying to coax out a laugh from Stan. He was unmoved.

"That wasn't funny. Get out of here. I don't believe you're God."

The kid put his finger up and squinted his eyes knowingly. "I believe you _believe_ you don't believe me."

"Why would God tell a joke about a pedophiliac Catholic priest?" Stan inquired, no longer enjoying this game, if he had even enjoyed it to begin with. "That's my religion, dude, don't mock it."

"John, Chapter 3, Verse 16," the teen rattle off. "What's it say?"

Stan swallowed hard. He half heartedly rifled through his memory, strangely determined to prove himself to this insane nobody. But he couldn't come up with right answer. He had seen that on cardboard signs being waved during the Super Bowl in the end zone but had never bothered to really look it up before. "I… I d-don't know," he answered at long last, cursing the shameful tremble in his voice.

"Oh…" the boy nodded, biting his lip again in disappointment. "And you call yourself a Catholic. He looked at his cigarette for a minute, as if remembering he had possessed it to begin with. He clicked his tongue, disapprovingly and turned to Stan one last time. "You got a light?"

"I don't smoke," Stan answered honestly, feeling pulled down from his once high perch. He felt exactly like he did whenever Kyle beat him in religious debates.

The kid rolled his eyes with a sigh and retrieved a black lighter from his jeans pocket. Striking it up and putting the cig to the flame, he took in a long, pensive drag before blowing it arrogantly into Stan's face. He shook his head slowly. "That's not what I asked."

He ground his feet into the pavement and brushed past Stan, offering a few final words. "See you tomorrow, Stan." He waved over his shoulder, knowing the Stan was examining him as he walked away. "Tell Kyle I'm watching over him."

"Kyle?" Stan wondered aloud, but the boy didn't respond. After a while he turned a sharp corner and disappeared.

"New friend of yours?" came a voice, and Stan jumped with a start. He turned around to see crimson red hair and deep emerald eyes holding his gaze. It was Kyle, fresh from school, his man bag slung across his torso, off to one side.

Stan glared back in bewilderment, letting his last conversation gradually sink in. After a while, the only answer he could come up with was, "I don't know…."

"I got worried," Kyle admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "He looked goth… and we all know what happens when Raven comes to town."

"Yeah…."


	2. A Black Raven, A White Rabbit

Chapter two! Once again, I've got a pretty good idea of where this is going. If you like it, tell me and I'll continue it. It's honestly up in the air right now.

Jeeze oh petes, why is it that I love writing about drama? Can't I just make a normal story that isn't wacky and full of things that could never ever ever possibly even remotely happen? Eh, whatever.

**Disclaimer: Darkness... chocking me... drags me down so deep, I cannot breath... happiness dies. Or rather, this is what I'd say if anybody sued me for copyright infringement. So do me a favor and listen when I tell you: I do not own South Park or any characters there in.**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

**Chapter 2**

"I had to see it to believe it!" Kyle shouted, walking into the diner and straight up to Stan. He was wearing black everything: a black hat, a black shirt, black pants. He even had his ear pierced with a cross, of all things! And was that mascara under his eyes? Unbelievable! "How could you do this to yourself?"

Stan took a sip from his coffee mug, his eyelids low and apathetic. "I'm merely dressing the way my soul feels. Dark and despairing… like a pitch black void of endless misery, sucking me in, down to the depths."

"Will you cut the crap?" Kyle barked, in no mood. "We're all starting to get worried about you. You're like a chronic goth – every time Wendy dumps you, you hang out with these losers."

Kyle gestured toward the four other kids sitting in the booth, smoking and drinking coffee; from left to right sat the tall goth, the short goth, the girl goth, and the goth with red highlights in his hair that hung over his face who was perched right next to Stan. They shrugged off Kyle's derogatory words with indifference, the tall one mumbling under his breath, "Justin Timberlake wannabe…." Kyle growled and rolled his eyes. These goth kids were insufferable!

"Look… Stan," he cajoled, looking his friend dead in the eye, drawing his attention away from the goth kids to converse with him and him alone. "Shit happens, okay? And I'm all for expressing your emotions in creative outlets, but damn! This is too much. You can't keep…." Kyle's sentence trailed off into silence as he looked down onto the table they were sitting at. Just between an empty coffee mug and an unrolled napkin of silverware, Stan and the red goth had their hands… their fingers intertwined with each other's.

"What the hell?" Kyle breathed in disbelief. "What. The. Hell. Are you two holding hands? That's… well, that's –"

"That's what?" the girl goth haughtily inquired, bobbing her head side to side with an extra dosage of sass. Kyle remained silent, his mouth hanging open, dumbstruck.

"Are you so off put by two guys holding hands that you've become speechless?" red goth asked, tightening his grip around Stan's hand.

"Conformist," spat short goth.

"Yeah," tall goth agreed, a puff of smoke wafting from his lips in the shape of a ring. "Conformist."

"Conformist," Stan mumbled, a little less convincingly than the others, but it stung all the same. Kyle shook his head slowly, unable to find the words to express his shock, and the pangs of betrayal beat hard against his chest.

"You can't…" he started, his eyes wide. "You can't do that. That's… that's wrong, and y-you can't do that, Stan! Not with… not with _him_!" Kyle jabbed a threatening finger into red goth's face, his hand quivering with anger. "You can't just do something like that!"

"Why not?" Stan snapped, feeling his chest suddenly swell up with adrenaline. "What's wrong with two guys holding hands, huh? Are you that much of a conformist, Kyle?" An echo of 'conformist' circled the table as all the goths nodded their heads at each other. Stan raised his hand, still clasping onto red's, showing it off to the entire restaurant with indignation. "How about you get out of here, you Banana Republic whore."

"B-but," Kyle stammered, in a daze. "What about Wendy?"

"What _about_ Wendy?"

All was quiet. Nobody spoke a word. Even the din of other civilians eating their meals at the diner seemed to lessen in accordance with the argument. Kyle breathed heavily, balling his hands into tight fists. He stared at the floor, clenching his jaw to remind him of his anger. "You know what? Whatever, Stan."

"My name's Raven now."

"Good!" yelled Kyle, slamming his hands down onto the table, rattling the dishes and causing the goth kids to recoil in surprise. "That's great! Because if you were Stan, I would beat the living shit out of you! But you're right, you know! You're definitely not Stan, cause Stan wouldn't be such a whiny little bitch! But, tell you what, _Raven_… when Stan finally decides to show up, tell him I'll be at my house playing video games. He's welcome to join me after he's come to his senses."

Kyle couldn't have stormed out of that diner fast enough.

"...Conformist."

Later, all the goth kids had paid their bill, without leaving a tip, and convened next to the front door of the restaurant. "See you guys tomorrow," tall goth said, and crossed the street. Girl goth and short goth wordlessly walked left and turned the corner to their homes, and Raven went right. It was getting late, and he had no idea how long it would take him to walk to his house.

"Looks like you're going my way," called a familiar voice, and Raven glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder to greet him.

"Hey Red," he greeted as red goth walked up next to Raven, keeping in time with his stride. His name wasn't actually Red, but Raven didn't know what else to call him. He had said that he didn't want to go by the faggy name his parents had given him, so Red had never mentioned his real name. Everyone just called him Red.

"What was that all about?" Red started, his hands in his pockets and his eyes downcast to the ground. "Back at the diner. That Kyle kid seemed pretty pissed off." He rubbed his nose with his hand, trailing a finger hesitantly over his fresh lip piercing, feeling the icy metal and the heat of his flesh clash with subtle passion.

"I don't care about him anymore," Raven answered, his voice monotone and uncaring. If the world didn't care about him, why should he care about the world?

"But… he seemed like a good friend."

"You guys are my only friends now."

Red pulled from his jeans a packet of cigarettes. He swiped one out and was about to put it into his mouth before he stopped. He kinda just… stared at it for a while. Depressed. Unusually emotional over such a trivial thing like a cig. "I don't like smoking, you know."

"I thought all goths smoked," Raven questioned, slowing down his pace to hold a proper conversation. It was weird. Red usually kept his voice so gruff, a guise Raven supposed he used to sound tougher. But now, his words were smooth and almost… enjoyable to listen to.

"Yeah, and all goths walk everywhere, right?" Red scoffed, grinding to a halt. "Well, today my feet hurt, so I'm going to use the fucking bus. If… that's alright with you?" Raven shrugged and leaned against the metal pole that had a sign riveted to it that read 'Bus Stop.'

They were silent for a while, the awkward tension between them palpable. "You say we're friends," Red mused, still staring at the cigarette through his bangs which weaved over his face. "My grandpa… he died last month. From lung cancer. He smoked too much. He always told me to quit smoking while I still could. That I was too young for that shit. But I can't."

"Why can't you?"

Red laughed, tapping the cig against his wrist before finally flicking it away, unlit. "Because then I wouldn't fit in," he admitted with a cheerless smile. "I'd be a conformist."

It must have been the sunset, or the coffee, or… something that was just out of the ordinary. But when Raven looked at Red, with his black and crimson hair sweeping over the right side of his face, his slender torso and cutely hunched shoulders. Red kinda looked… he looked….

Raven's thought was knocked away as he was bumped from behind by someone. He tripped over his own feet and fell right into Red's arms. Raven's heart skipped a beat as he looked up, Red's eyes humorously surprised, a thin smile dancing across his lips, and his eyes sparkling in the fading light. "T-thanks… for catching me," Raven whispered, barely able to breath.

"Anytime," Red shot back, helping him back up onto his own two legs.

"Oh dear!" the aggressor gasped from behind. "That was entirely my fault, wasn't it? Oh me! Oh my!" Both of the boys turned to face the stranger and both had to take a step back when they saw him.

He was a tall man dressed almost like a clown; all in shades of red and purple. He was wearing a maroon shirt and deep purple pants that vanished beneath vibrant red boots. He had a very light purple trench coat on, almost white looking, and it was pulled down past his shoulders. And the sleeves were so long that they dropped far beyond his hands, reminiscent of an untied straight jacket. But, none the less, he was carrying a long black cane in his hand, even through the fabric of the sleeve. Across his chest was strapped a messenger bag. He tipped his top hat that had a red bow, pink rose, and a little slip of paper all suspended on one side, showing off his pitch black hair.

But possibly the most eerie of all was that the man was wearing a mask. A porcelain mask of the whitest alabaster. It was plain and simple – two holes for eyes and one grinning mouth stretched wide across it. But you couldn't see into the eyes or the into the mouth. They were lost in the deepest and darkest of black, and any sign of life the face behind it might have had was covered completely by the all encompassing dark.

"W-what do you think you're doing?" Raven asked, pulling Red close to him, just in case this guy was as crazy as he looked.

"Why, I'm waiting for Godot!" the man laughed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He waved his cane in the air and arched his back in a yawning stretch.

"For who?"

"Whom."

"What?"

"Exactly!" The man appeared to stick his finger in the air as a triumphant gesture, but it was still lost in the sleeve of his trench coat.

"I… I don't think I understand," Raven mumbled, confused.

"Hey, douche bag!" Red shouted, growing annoyed. "I think the circus is leaving town, you'd better catch your ride on the Looney Train before it leaves. Next stop: the funny farm."

"Ah!" the man exclaimed, raising his arms with delight. "He's there! He's there! I found him!"

"Who did you find?" Raven drawled, thoroughly confused.

"I already told you," the man chuckled, skipping out into the middle of the road. "The white rabbit, silly!"

"I thought you said you were waiting for Godot," Red snorted, watching at the man effortlessly lifted up the manhole cover that was right in the intersection of the street. Lucky for him, there were no cars coming.

"Nothing of the sort!"

"Yes you did, you said you were waiting for Godot!"

"Who?"

"I thought you told me 'whom.'"

The man had already lowered himself halfway into the manhole. At the sound of Raven's words, he looked up with a start, his mask gleaming in the sunset. He lifted his arm and pointed straight towards Stan, revealing slender fingers sheathed in a deep purple glove. "Exactly…." And with that, he vanished underground.

Raven and Red were both shell shocked. Red cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously, his tough act all but dissolved. He crumpled into Stan's embrace before realizing just how close they actually were and hurridly pulled himself away with a stutter. "I think I really, _really_ want to go home now." Red rubbed his hands along his arms as if trying to warm himself up; a sort of... defense mechanism.

They held hands together on the bus, overwhelmed by the bewildering encounter with the rouge man. People stared at them, especially the old ones, but they didn't care. Or… if they did, they didn't let it show. Red was quiet while the bus drove on, like he normally was. Although, it was a different sort of silence. A pensive one.

"Those stupid conformist assholes," Raven sneered as they trudged off the bus together at their stop. "Just because two guys can hold hands doesn't make them gay!"

"I am."

Stan jerked to a stop and pulled his hand from Red's. The other boy just scrunched up his face as if he had an acrid taste coating his tongue. "I… I'm sorry," Stan offered. He knew it was nothing he had to apologize for, it was for lack of having anything else to say. "I didn't know."

"Me neither," Red admitted, swishing his hair from his eyes. "I had an inkling, of course. But I was so caught up with being 'goth' that everything else went on the back burner. It wasn't until you started hanging out with us that I really understood."

Red gently took both of Stan's hands and held them close. "You have great friends, Stan. Ones that care about you. They care about you for who you are, not who you make out to be. Me and the others… we're so far up our own asses, we could never give you that." His grip went limp and Stan's fingers slipped through, back down to his sides. Red looked away, shamefully.

"It's far too late for me. I've already drank the Kool-Aid. But you can still move on, Stan. Leave Raven behind. He doesn't do anything good for you." Red swallowed and took a step back, the distance between them slowly growing. "It was certainly a pleasure to hold your hand. Even if you are straight. You've helped me so much, Stan. I can't thank you enough."

He turned to leave, his footsteps echoing down the vacant sidewalk as Stan lingered, not knowing what to think. A dark shadow loomed over him and he whirled around to see the man from before, his finger resting poignantly upon his porcelain chin. "Where did his ears go?" he mumbled with dejection. "I could have sworn…."

"Just who the hell are you?" Stan exploded, but the man was unfazed. He tipped his hat once more and did a low bow.

"You may call me the Mad Hatter," he answered playfully. Rummaging through his bag he pulled out a large lollypop, rainbow and spiraling like a colorful, hypnotic ring. "Care for an all day sucker?"

"I'm not supposed to take candy from strangers," Stan mumbled, cursing the cliché but very relevant excuse.

"Poppy cock!" the man chortled, sliding the discus back into his bag. "Besides, I think Alice already has one of those." He waltzed away, humming to himself, his boots clopping loudly along the pavement.

"Will you just leave me alone?!" Stan cried, stomping his foot like a tantrum child.

"That depends," the man called over his shoulder. "Will _you_ be able to leave _me_ alone?"

* * *

"Is he a friend of yours from church?" Kyle asked as they walked home, their backpacks laying heavily upon them. They didn't have any homework, but they both had decided to begin clearing out their lockers. Summer was drawing near, and there was only a week left of school. They couldn't have been more eager.

"Whom?" Stan asked, already thinking of other things; Wendy for instance. They had broken up again a month ago for about the 62th time. Actually... it was the 62th time... Stan had been keeping track. Suppose that's why Kyle was so worried about catching him with that stalker kid. He did look the part of goth – but Raven hadn't made an appearance yet, and probably wouldn't any time soon. If ever.

"What do you mean who?" Kyle sniffed; he was _not_ going to get a cold, he refused, not with only a week until summer vacation! "That kid you were talking to earlier. Is he a friend from church or something?"

"Why does that matter, Kyle?" Stan said, getting defensive. He hated how every little thing got turned around back to religion some way or another. It was annoying!

Kyle sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Guess it doesn't, really. Just curious."

"I don't know," Stan shrugged, feeling helpless. "I just met the kid two seconds ago. Called himself God." Kyle raised an eyebrow in concern.

"Did he try to rape you?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Their talk was becoming stagnant. Be it because Stan didn't want to talk about his new found _'buddy'_ or well... something else. "Hey, we still on for this weekend?"

"I haven't gotten a movie yet," Kyle reported with a sigh. "Not much of a movie night if there isn't a movie to watch. And I haven't really select a date yet. My parents are busy this weekend and Ike… Ike and I aren't on the best of terms right now. But I still think I can safely say that yes, we are still on for this weekend."

"Great," Stan smiled, wrapping his arm around Kyle's shoulder. "Great…" This feeling in his stomach. So… foreign. So unreal.

Was it regret? Maybe... shame?

Of who?

Ugh... of _whom_?


	3. When God Says Jump, You Say How High!

Have I mentioned that I hate Ike's canon age? He should be older so that the boys can interact with him more. In case you didn't get the hint, I changed his age again, just because it helps with the plot.

I've only just noticed how dialouge centric this whole story is. There's hardly any room for detail because most of the plot progression comes from what the characters say and not neccassarily what they do. It's a little annoying for me, since it makes my chapters so much shorter than what they could be. But, oh well, I guess that's just the way it is.

**Disclaimer: Instead of playing Marco Polo, we should play South Park. "_South!"_ Park! "_South!"_ Park! "_Jews out of water!"_ Damn, foiled again. Curse Kyle's Judaism.... Whew, in all the excitement, I forgot to mention - I do not own South Park or any characters there in.**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

**Chapter 3**

Saturday morning, Stan went for a walk, as he often did when he found himself bored. Thankfully, the weather had already begun the transition between chilly Spring and almost warm Summer. Unfortunately, in order to avoid goose bumps, pants were still required.

The frequency of these walks was increasing at a frighteningly exponential rate. Even during school, Stan would find himself hitting the streets as opposed to hitting the books, maybe even twice a day. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like during break with the exorbitant amount of free time he would have on his hands. Maybe he should get a job or something….

Stan was strolling idly down the sidewalk, his iPod blaring in his ears to keep out any ambient noise of passers-by or drivers under the influence of road rage. He always went the same route when he walked and it had now become such a routine that he barely paid any attention to where his feet were going. He just let the melodies sweep him away to some far off imaginary place. A far off imaginary place Stan had affectionately dubbed "Not-South Park." His feet would carry him like some mindless machine for the whole trip until he arrived home again. In about 10 more meters, he would pass an alley, and then in 23 meters he would turn the corner onto St. Mark Drive.

However, today, Stan never made it past the alley.

"Boo!"

He appeared out of fucking no where, leaping from the shadows like some stalking predator. Stan shrieked an embarrassingly high pitched yelp and tumbled backwards, tripping into a pair of garbage cans.

"Oh man!" the kid snickered, not even attempting to hide his malevolent laughter. "If only I had a camera. That would be YouTube gold!"

Surmising that a scathing rebuttal would only backfire, Stan grimly picked himself up and brushed off some dust from his clothes. The kid, on the other hand, was wearing the same outfit he had on yesterday, only this time Stan noticed that the Sharpie scribed on his faded jeans were obviously Bible versus. And song lyrics. And a few lines in other languages. And… was that… was that a 'to do' list? Stand rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, but sure enough, written on his right thigh, in thick black sharpie was:

1. Make world (check)

2. Make human race (check)

3. Armageddon (no check)

"God has short term memory loss?" Stan quipped with a pout.

"And selective hearing," the guy smirked.

"So much for answering prayers, I guess."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He coyly dug his pinky finger into his ear as if clearing out the wax.

"Har, har," Stan sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "God has a sense of humor."

"Ever seen a Platypus? Funny. As. Hell." All Stan could manage to manifest his annoyance as was a simple roll of the eyes; and it definitely wasn't doing the job near well enough. "Actually, what really happened was: I sneezed. But when I saw how cute the little guy turned out, I decided to keep it. Then I slapped on some venom sacs, just to make him even _more_ bad ass!"

"Platypuses are venomous?"

"Yeah!" the kid exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air with excitement. "They got these little claw things on their heels that stab and inject toxins. Rule of thumb is: if you want something to be cooler, make it poisonous. Like the Slow Loris! It looks just like a regular old sloth, right? But it has venom sacs that secrete into his arms. He licks up the venom, mixes it in his mouth with saliva and then –"

He lunged forward and bit Stan right on the shoulder. Stan let out a guttural cry and pushed the kid away. "God! What the fuck was that for?!"

"Ah ha, so you've finally accepted that I'm God?"

"NO!" Stan shouted, backing up for fear that the freak's fangs would strike a second time. "I don't believe you're God! I don't even believe in God in the first place!"

The boy reeled back with a gasp, eyes wide, pupils dilated with shock. "You know…" he started, his voice trembling melodramatically. "Every time someone says 'I don't believe in God,' another deity fades from existence."

"So what, are you Tinkerbell now?"

The kid hmphed and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, flaring it up with his plain black lighter. "Just trying to ease the mood, Stanley - you're far too tense for your own good," he said, putting the cig to his lips, drawing in a long drag.

"Well, you're not helping," huffed Stan, placing his hands on his hips. "Now, I'm sick of this, got it? I'm going to give you exactly one minute to prove to me that you're God, on the off chance that you just might be – yeah right – or I'm gonna kick your fucking ass until you get to meet God yourself!" He straightened up to his full height, trying to look as menacing as possible. "Starting… now."

The teen blew a perfect smoke ring and chuckled at it, grinning confidently at Stan. They glared down at each other, but the boy was undaunted. "Fish sticks."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell Kyle: under the fish sticks."

"What the hell does that have to –" Stan was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. He felt his heart leap in his chest with overpowering suspicion. It couldn't be. Hesitantly, Stan pulled the phone from his pocket, trying to stop his hand from shaking as he flipped it open. I _couldn't_ be. God, tell me this is all just a dream!

The kid slapped his gloved hand down onto Stan's shoulder, the cigarette between his teeth as he smiled. "It's all just a dream, Stanley." Stan shot him an astonished glance and the kid raised his eyebrows innocently. "You gonna answer that?"

Stan weakly pushed the talk button and raised the cell phone to his ear. "H-hello?"

"Stan, finally! It's me." His heart pounded heavier against his rib cage. Kyle's voice rang crystal clear through the speaker. The boy in black giggled breathlessly to himself and walked back into the alleyway, leaning against the dingy brick wall with an indomitable smirk.

"Hey, I found a movie," Kyle continued, oblivious to his friend's situation. Stan could hear things being tossed about through the static in the background as Kyle grunted, distractedly. "You know that movie 'Taken?' Where the guy's daughter gets kidnapped or something, and he goes around killing everybody searching for her? It seemed pretty decent enough from the trailers, and there really isn't anything else out right now, so I rented it for us. But – ugh, get out of my way, I'm looking! – I couldn't get Ike to leave the house. No big surprise there, it's not like he has any friends to go out with anyway – hey, shut up, I'm on the phone here, okay? – so he's gonna be here too. But that's alright cause… Jesus… I bought our favorite ice cream last night, Rocky Road, but… damn it! I can't find it anywhere, we're got so much shit in the freezer…."

The kid snapped his fingers impatiently, breaking Stan's attention away to him, and motioned for Stan to say something.

As if in a daze, Stan cleared his throat and spoke. "Under the fish sticks."

He could hear as Kyle ceased his rummaging through the freezer and slowly moved a few things about on the racks, out of the way.

"Oh," he mumbled, as the freezer door slammed shut. "Uh… thanks, dude." There was a break in their small talk as Kyle did something; by the sounds of it, Stan assumed he was retrieving bowls from their cabinets and laying them out across the counter. "So… when are you coming over? Too early and it won't be thawed out enough; too late and, well… we'll be eating ice cream soup, if you know what I mean. And Ike's intolerable, right now, I need something to take me away from him. No, I'm not talking about you, Ike, would you stop eavesdropping!"

"You can't," the boy said, his hand hovering just in front of his lips, the cigarette recklessly dropping ash in the shallow wind.

"I… I can't," Stan echoed, feeling the words burn his tongue even as he said them. Silverware, probably spoons, clattered onto the table over the phone. Kyle didn't say anything for a while.

"Why not?" he asked, finally, disappointment cutting through Stan's ears.

The teen blew out smoke into the air and grumbled, "You have a church thing."

Stan swallowed hard as Kyle waited patiently for an answer. "Um… I have a… a church thing."

The line was silent for a good minute. A rush of air garbled through the speak as Kyle sighed, and Stan could hear the freezer open again and the tub of ice cream thrown unceremoniously back inside. "I see," said Kyle, shortly. "We then… see you sometime tomorrow then? Maybe?"

Stan gazed at the kid just across from him, silently awaiting an answer as the guy finished his cigarette and flicked it to the ground. When their eyes met, he merely shrugged. "Well, Stanley? Will you see him tomorrow?"

"I guess," Stan whispered, not really sure who he was answering. There was a wordless click and the line went dead.

"Come," God coaxed, leading Stan away by the crook of his arm. "Today is going to be a long day."

* * *

They had walked in silence for nearly five minutes before Stan had gathered the gumption to speak up. He was frustrated and annoyed, but most of all, he was perplexed. So many questions. And it was painfully obvious that God would be slow to the divulging of answers. "Is there a reason I just ditched my best friend who probably hates me now? Or was it all just for shits and giggles?"

God looked over his shoulder with those icy gray eyes and beamed. "Because it's the seventh day of the week; my day off."

"So when God is bored, he spirits himself away to Earth and bothers poor, unfortunate humans?" Stan stuffed his hands into his pockets, slouching down under the weight of his circumstances. "This all seems so pointless."

"Nothing is ever pointless, Stan," God laughed with a shrug. "Everything you do is just another domino." He smiled again and kept walking to God knows where. Ugh… pun not intended. Either way, Stan had no idea where he was leading him. But, nonetheless, they kept marching on, God humming a tune in time with his stride.

"Why are you so happy all the time?" Stan found himself asking.

"With my profession, you gotta be."

"Yeah, but… seriously, though."

The kid whirled around on his heels and Stan nearly collided with him, doing an awkward dance on his toes to keep his balance. "Okay Stan," he conceded, holding up his hands in surrender. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll allow you one question, in which I will answer truthfully and completely seriously. But think over it carefully, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I won't offer again."

Stan took a step back and filled his lungs with a deep breath. His heart was racing unusually fast. But what did he expect – this was his chance! The world, no, the _universe_, was at his beckon call… literally!

He had to make this big. Historic! A world changing epiphany that he could tell… tell… just who would he tell? Who would believe him? I know this radical truth because God told me so? What kind of explanation was that? So… Stan would know and he would just be content in having the answer himself. But… even if he got the answer to life itself, would he be able to keep it a secret? Something that earth shattering? After a long time of debating, Stan could only decided on a very unsure, very vague:

"Why?"

"Because."

Stan shook his finger angrily at the insolently grinning teen. "Hey, fucker, you said you'd be serious!"

"Ask a stupid question," the boy sang, "get a stupid answer. Now, for real this time. And think. What do you want to know most, Stan?"

He swallowed his doubts and cleared his mind. The words were surprisingly lucid as they rolled off his tongue. "I guess what I meant to ask was… why me?"

God laid his hand compassionately onto Stan's shoulder, his lips still peeled in a grin, but it was far more warm and comforting than before. His gray eyes seemed to adopt a luminescence of their own, and they sparkled brightly, enchantingly.

"Because you do good, Stan. And you deserve more."

Stan felt his breathing become less hurried and his heart rate returned to a normal pace. Being in contact with the teen seemed to calm him down somehow. "But… I… I don't understand," he stuttered. "I'm a B average student, a rebellious son, I'm not that proficient in the arts o-o-or pretty much anything for that matter. I don't do well at all."

The guy pulled away with a bemused snicker and started walking again, motion for Stan to follow. "That's not what I said."

* * *

"Wait up for me!" Stan called, running through the halls of school. He had politely asked Kenny to wait for him at his locker so that they could ride the bus together and finish their Physics project, but of course, he was off gallivanting with some girl! "Wait up, you dick head!"

He stomped heavily onto a piece of paper and nearly slipped off his feet. Stan looked down to see Bebe, distraught and panicking, trying to pick up the papers scattered from one of her folders. Stan twitched forward, debating on what he should do. If he lingered too long, Kenny would definitely get out of there and he would miss the bus. But… poor Bebe….

"A-are you alright?" Stan asked, kneeling down and gathering up what he could. Bebe looked up through her blonde hair and nodded. "What happened?"

"I was just trying to make it to my bus on time," Bebe explained, taking the papers from Stan. "But this clown, this… bastard, pushed into me and knocked everything out of my hands. You'd think I was a Freshmen!"

Stan laughed heartily. A little fake, but heartily all the same. "Okay, well, you got everything?" Bebe nodded again, and Stan wasted barely any time on goodbyes, dashing for the door.

"Thanks, Stan," Bebe shouted after him. "You're a great help!" She smiled softly to herself and glanced at the watch on her wrist. Perfect, she should still be able to catch the bus!

* * *

"We're walking by Kyle's house," Stan noticed as he continued to follow the teen-turned-God in front of him.

"Exactly," God confirmed. "And we're right on time."

Before Stan could question the statement, God slowed to a stop just as the front door to Kyle's house opened. Stan's heart skipped a beat as he waited on bated breath for whomever was to emerge.

Ike slammed the door behind him and let out a sigh; one that resembled a mixture between relief and derision. He was dressed… oddly familiar. Ike had on a pitch black, long sleeved shirt that was skin tight, and equally tight black jeans. His raven locks fell over his eyes in a cascade as he stared dismally down at his Converse shoes. A silver pentagram swayed around his neck on a chain fashioned to look like barbed wire. He looked strikingly like God….

"Naughty little boy," God chastised, calling from the sidewalk. "Not telling his parents that he's going out. For shame."

"Not home," Ike replied in a low voice, keeping his face down even as he brushed past them.

"What about Kyle?" asked Stan before the younger boy could get too far.

Ike started up, turning to face them directly, his mouth ajar slightly with awe, as if he'd never seen Stan before in his life. After a moment, he composed himself. His blue eyes burned into Stan as he glared imposingly. "What _about_ Kyle?" he hissed, and Stan cringed at his venom. "Besides, he's not one of my parents, is he? And that's who you asked about."

"I like this kid," God whispered aside to Stan, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it up in one fluid motion.

"If you really must know," Ike continued, kicking rocks along the pavement with his foot. "Kyle's upstairs. He's locked himself in his room, pouring over our old Torah." He peered at God through his scattered bangs and bit his bottom lip with envy. "Could I bum one of those?"

"Eh," the teen shrugged, passively, holding out the half empty carton. "Knock yourself out."

Ike was already pulling one out and placed it in his mouth to free up his hands to dig into his jeans' pockets. He took out his one pack of matches and struck one up as Stan gazed on, aghast. "Um… can I talk to you for a second," he pleaded, pulling God away a few feet, out of Ike's ear shot. "What do you think you're doing?" Stan growled in a harsh whisper. "He's like, 15!"

"15 years, 2 months, 6 days, 44 minutes, and 27 seconds… to be exact," God corrected with his annoyingly confident smile. "And besides, Stan. If I didn't want man to smoke, would I have invented cigarettes?"

"You didn't invent them, _man_ did!"

God raised an accusing eyebrow and took another puff, letting the smoke dissipate into the clouds above. "If I didn't want man to invent cigarettes, would I have invent man?"

"Now you're just being an unreasonable douche bag."

"Excuse me," Ike said, just loud enough to be heard. "Are you here to visit Kyle after all? Cause that would really make his day."

"No," God answered, brushing off the question.

"Then where are you going?" inquired Ike with a monotone.

God raised his shoulders with mock innocence. "We're going wherever you're going."

Ike stared at them, the cig smoldering between his fingers, his face cold and stoic. "I'm not looking for a tag along."

"Lucky for you," teen God chirped, clicking his tongue. "We're not girl scouts."

Ike continued to stare God down with an apathetic visage at such intensity and determination that Stan actually began to doubt which of the two would be the first to break away.

Ultimately, Ike blinked, much to his chagrin, and flicked the unfinished cigarette to the floor. He breathed out a final stream of smoke, his eyes mooned over and emotionless. "Funny," he commended, toneless.

As soon as Ike had turned his back, Stan leaned in and whispered into God's ear, "What's funny? I don't get it."

"Ike did," God pointed out with a satisfied smirk. "That's all that matters."

"So… where is taking us?"

The teen chuckled and placed his cigarette back between his lips. Pointing to Ike, he merely shrugged. "That's all up to _him_ now."


	4. Have You Thought Today?

I hate how sometimes I make up words, and Microsoft Word is like "No! There is no such thing! You are an idiot!" I much prefer the words I make...

Anyway, back to the story. So... some people might think I'm getting preachy here, but I want you to rest assured that if you keep an open mind, it won't effect the story at all. Surprisingly enough, I DO have a moral in this tale which will slowly be revealed. I hope you keep reading and enjoying it though. It only gets better from here on out (I predict... two... maybe three more chapters).

**Disclaimer: I'm running out of witty things to put here. If you have any ideas, tell me them, and I just might use them! I don't own South Park or any characters there in.**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

**Chapter 4**

"Stanley," the teacher breathed, disapprovingly. "You're a talented young man, and you've got a bright future ahead of you. But if you keep getting these consecutive tardies, you're never gonna get ahead in life."

What did that have to do with anything? So what if this was his sixteenth tardy (four tardies make an office detention, simple math proves that sixteen lates make two office detentions, and two office detentions make a Saturday detention. Guess I'm not going to Cartman's birthday party after all)? He was still young, just a Junior in high school, and had the rest of his life ahead of him to get it right.

"Wait here, I've got to go back to class," the teacher commanded, forcing his voice to be authoritative. He and Stan were actually good friends, and respected each other, but… this was his job, after all. Stan plopped down in one of the seats just outside the Principal's office and watched his teacher disappear back into the hallway. This was such a joke.

He was tempted to break out his iPod and listen to it, help pass the time and all, but not wanting to risk that one refuge to confiscation, he resisted the urge. Instead, he tried to hum all of his favorite songs from memory. But the incessantly ticking clock in the background messed with his beat, and eventually he abandoned the idea all together.

Scanning the room out of sheer boredom, Stan set his eyes on a boy who was sitting way down the aisle of seats at the very end. He was hunched over, his face in his hands, the arch of his spine rising and falling sporadically. It was Craig Tucker by the looks of it, but Stan couldn't be sure without seeing his face.

Stan listened closer in esoteric fascination. Craig was obviously crying. His shoulders shuddered with his ragged gasps, weeping nearly uncontrollably, trembling in his seat.

He took a breath and fidgeted in his chair, staring at the office's clock, just to draw his attention away from Craig. Stan was feeling almost embarrassed being so close to a boy who was openly crying. He tried to hum again, this time just to drown out the sobs. But he could still hear Craig, even from this distance.

Stan lifted himself to his feet, tugging at his jeans bashfully, and walked toward the bent over teen. "Craig?" he ventured a guess, and the boy lifted his head up at the sound of his name. His eyes were wet and beet red, his mouth open and panting. "Craig, are you okay –"

"Of course I'm fucking okay," Craig barked, wiping his nose on his arm. He broke eye contact and looked away with a sputter.

"Well, you were crying, so I just thought…."

"Who's crying?" I'm not crying." He glanced at Stan, but only for a brief second. As soon as he tasted the lies in his mouth, Craig broke away again, staring at the wall with an intense glare. "I am _not_ crying."

"Look, if you want to talk about it –"

Craig vaulted up from the chair and grabbed Stan by the collar, pulling his close enough so that they could both feel each other's breath. "What do you know?" he shouted at Stan, his entire body quaking so much he could barely keep hold. "What do you know, huh?!"

"I know that something's the matter," Stan yelled, raising his voice to make sure that Craig could hear him over his own ravings. "What's up, dude? You can talk to me!"

Craig's eyes widened, his mouth moving as if to say something. He clamped down onto Stan's shirt one last time before letting go and falling back into his seat. Stan could tell by his vacant expression that his mind was racing. And just like that, they were once again enveloped by the solitary ticking of the wall clock.

"Craig Francis Tucker!" someone bellowed, and both boys jumped at the sound. Mr. and Mrs. Tucker barged their way ferociously into the main office, neither of them none too happy to be there. Without even skipping a beat, Craig's father grappled his son's arm and held it fast. Craig twisted and struggled, but his dad was not to be denied.

"This is the last time, you understand me?" he growled at an excessive volume.

"Suspended again, Craig?" his mother spat, maliciously. "I'm so disappointed in you."

Craig stopped fighting, his face looking as he had just been physically slapped. But, after that, he sort of… went limp. Almost like he just didn't care about fighting them anymore. He just stood there, a blank expression plastered across his visage. Motionless.

"What did we tell you, huh?" Mr. Tucker grunted, needlessly man handling the unresisting boy. "Either stay in school or out on the street. Those were ever you're only two options. You will not disgrace this family, Craig. God damn it, you will _not_!"

"I don't even know what I did!" Craig tried on last time. "I honestly don't remember doing anything!"

"Shut up!" both parents threatened, nearly simultaneously. "You're not going to give your father and I any more stupid excuses. You think we'll fall for that? Do you honestly think we'll fall for that, Craig?"

He didn't answer. He was limp again. His face lacked any emotion other than defeat. "I want to talk to the councilor," he whispered, low and cold, but dangerously focused. "Please. I'd really… I'd just really like to speak with the councilor."

"You will do no such thing!" Mr. Tucker blared. "We're marching you home this instant, and that is final!"

"Oh, give him a chance!"

Stan had spoken before he even realized what it was that he was saying. As Craig's mother and father glared at him, the words got caught in his throat. "I… I mean," Stan began, suddenly frightened for his own well being. "Craig… he's a good kid. You shouldn't be so hard on him. You know, stuff happens. Craig, he… he's always really funny; he lightens up the mood in class right before a big test. He always defends the little guy. He's befriended that Thomas kid, with Tourettes. I mean, you're condemning him without looking at the whole picture."

The Tucker's faces were stone. Craig looked astonished.

"Well," Stan continued, shying away. "I'm not his parents. You are. But if I were you… the least I could do for hi is let him see the councilor if he really feels he has to."

Craig's mother blinked and his father visibly swallowed his pride. He clenched his jaw and waved a single finger at his son. "Ten minutes," he said, his anger far from being doused. "Let's go."

Mrs. Tucker led the way, followed by Mr. Tucker, Craig trailing behind them. The boy turned around for a moment to look at Stan once more. He was breathing heavily, and he certainly didn't appear serene in any manner. But his eyes spoke novels. And deep within his irises, Stan could clearly read two words: "Thank you."

"Stanley Marsh." The teen scrunched up his face and turned towards Principal Victoria as she loomed in the doorway. "Could you please step into my office."

As soon as he got inside and sat down in the seat across from the Principal's desk, he discovered that he was much less intimidated than what he was before.

"Mr. Marsh, this is the sixteenth time you have been late for one of your classes, am I correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Stan confirmed, eyeing Principal Victoria as she folded her hands deliberately over the papers scattered in front of her.

"The punishment for such an offence is equivalent to a Saturday detention, do you know that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And just why, Mr. Marsh, have you been consistently last sixteen times within the past month alone?"

"Um," Stan searched his memory. "Mrs. Briselli needed help clearing her white board one day. And Butters had misplaced his Calculus book somewhere in the cafeteria. Then, one time, Kyle got sick in gym, so I escorted him to the nurse. And then –"

"Am I to believe that you have been arriving tardy to your classes so frequently on account that you have been aiding your fellow students between bells?"

"Well, I really wouldn't call it aid, Principal Victoria," shrugged Stan. "Like you yourself said before: I'm just a magnet for trouble. I don't ask for these things to happen around me, they just do."

Principal Victoria was scribbling something into a folder. Without looking up, she addressed her student. "I must say, Stanley, you actions are actually quite commendable. However, I will still be required to give you the Saturday. Please give this to your parents so that they are informed." With a swipe of her wrist, she ripped off a slip of paper and handed it to Stan.

"Oh, and, by the way," she said, tapping her pen on the desk in time with the ticking clock. "A strange gentleman stopped by earlier. He left you this." Principal Victoria held up a large lollypop, rainbow colored and spiraling. Stan took it from her gingerly, confused. "It's odd. I've never known the circus to advertise so personally…."

"Right," Stan mumbled, gazing at the rouge candy. He left the office, quietly shutting the door behind him. Without a second glance, he started off back to class, dropping the lollypop into the nearest garbage can with a satisfying thud.

* * *

Ike had led Stan and God directly into town. On their way there, the two riding on Ike's coat tails kept a good ten feet away the entire time, making Stan feel more like a stalker than a welcome guest. There were a few times when Ike would look back at them, his face apathetic but judgmental, subtly glaring daggers at them. God would merely flip his brown hair from his eyes and keep following, never breaking stride unless Ike did.

They passed all the usual places that Stan assumed Ike would go to for recreation: the theater, the arcade, all fast food restaurants, and candy shops. Ultimately, he just stopped wonder all together and imagined that he was back on his walk, letting his feet carry him without any inhibitions or worries. He was easily pulled from his trance when Ike ground to a halt and pivoted to face them.

"Alright," he announced, his voice low and collected, just as it had been before. "I'm here. I've arrived." Stan looked around. They weren't anywhere special – just on the corner of an avenue melding into South Park's main road, even though all the streets were eerily devoid of cars. "You can stop following me now and continue on with your lives."

"But wait," God gawked, dramatically extending his entire arm to point out an on coming stranger. "Who's _that_?" Stan rolled his eyes in annoyance; as if _God_ wouldn't know. Rounding the corner was a young man, Ike's age, skinny almost to the point of anorexia. He too was wearing all black and was also wearing a daunting scowl… but it wasn't nearly as effective or convincing as Ike's was.

"Oh my God," Stan breathed, at the teen at his side blew a raspberry in his direction. "Short goth!"

"His name is Liam," Ike spat, crossing his arms over his chest. "We were to meet here and then go chill at the park. And you _won't_ be following us there."

"Why the hell are you hanging out with this kid?" stammered Stan, inching closer in his shock. Ike was not intimidated, standing his ground even as Stan advanced, threateningly. "He's a goth! Ike, listen to me, because I know from experience, you can't get sucked into that crowd. I know you're a teenager and you feel like you have to rebel… but… don't… don't drink the Kool-Aid, dude. Don't do it."

"What are you trying to do Stan?" Ike spat, emotion creeping into his tone for the first time.

"You don't know those guys like I do!" the older boy tried to explain. "They do something to your head. They convince you to be someone different, just because! They go around smoking, drinking coffee, they don't do well in school, they run around labeling everyone conformists!"

"Would you listen to yourself?!" shouted Ike, and Stan straightened up with a start. "_Those_ people? Rebelling? Drinking the Kool-Aid? What the fuck are you talking about Stan? You accuse me of joining a cult, deriding me and my friend on some preconceived intolerance. You say they label people, but isn't that what you're doing right now? Maybe you should practice what you preach, Stan."

Stan glanced over his shoulder, soundlessly begging God for back up. The teen just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, choosing to remain silent.

"So what if I hang out with Liam?" Ike scoffed, throwing his hands into the air for emphasis. "So what if I dress like this? That doesn't make me goth! Do you think I'm stupid, Marsh? You think I don't control my own life?" He pounded his fist into his chest passionately. "I am in control for once. Liam's my friend because he's a good guy. I dress like this because I want to. I don't hang out with the other 'goth kids,' as you call them, and I never have! You say to not be a conformist, well, I'm fucking not!"

"You're just like my brother," he continued, his volume growing as his anger blossomed. "Shoving your beliefs down my throat just because you _think_ you're right! Well, not everyone thinks the same, Marsh! I don't label myself anything; not even Jewish, though it makes my brother crazy. I refuse to be Jewish because I refuse to fucking believe in a fucking God when there no such fucking thing! I don't want to be preppy, or goth, or Jewish, or Catholic! All I want to be is Ike! Can't I just be Ike? What's so fucking wrong with wanting to just. Be. _Me_!"

Ike clenched his fist at Stan to punctuate his rant. He took one deep breath… and almost instantly reverted back to his apathetic slouch. "We're going to the park," he informed, fitting his hands into his pockets. "Don't follow us."

Liam shook his head and flipped his middle finger at the two of them. "You used to be cool, man," he sneered before sprinting off to catch up with Ike.

Stan faltered in disbelief, his mouth slack jaw. He turned to look at God again, who was watching Ike disappear into the distance. When he finally noticed that Stan was glaring at him, he swallowed and bit his lip. "You want some coffee?" he asked, pointing with both hands at the café across the street. "I want some coffee. Let's go get some coffee."

"So, Stanley," God started after taking a sip of his mocha java. They were seated just outside on top of tall stools up around a small glass table. "Just why were you trying to convince Ike to not be goth? Ever wonder about that?"

Gripping his coffee mug with as much force as he dared, Stan glared at the teen across from him, finding it so much easier to let out his frustration on this particular form of God. "You tell me what I'm wondering," he said, spitefully. "Aren't you omnipotent? Why do you ask questions you should already know the answers to."

God considered this for a moment… or perhaps it was just an excuse to take an overly exaggerated sip from his latte. "Consider this, Stan," he said, putting down the mug and putting his undivided attention on Stan. "Why is it that teachers give their students exams? I mean, they already know all the answers to the test, it's no trouble for the teacher. But the reason they do it… is so that the students can learn their lesson. That's why I question you. That's why I test you. It's never for _my_ benefit. It's to make sure that you've learned your lesson."

"Have you ever seen Groundhog Day; the one with Bill Murray in it?" God asked, sharply changing the subject and pushing his coffee mug to the edge of the table. Stan remained motionless, not even slightly amused. "Well, Bill's character, a weatherman from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, gets trapped by some unknown power on the same day, Groundhog Day, for one _thousand_ years. That's right, he lives the same day over and over again. And at one point in the movie, he's come to the end of his rope, and he says, 'Maybe God uses tricks. Maybe he's just been around so long that he just knows everything.'"

"Why are you telling me this?" Stan questioned, finding the whole speech impossible to wrap his mind around.

"Because I gave the human race the power to think," God answered, breaking his normally cheerful persona. He actually sounded a little annoyed. "The power to question, the power to reason; a power that nothing else on this planet has. And yet it goes to waste. Believe it or not, assholes, but I'm not your fucking maid! If you make a mess, I expect you to clean it up. And yet every night, it's always the same: God, give me this… God, I want that…."

"Then just change it!" Stan hissed, not believing what he was hearing. "You're God! You can do anything. Fix it!"

God paused and lowered his head, letting a small chuckle escape from his mouth. "Now… what was it that I just got finished saying, Stanley? Just write the answers on the board? What kind of teacher would I be then?" He pushed his stool back and took to his feet, walking away. Stan cried after him.

"Convince him!" he pleaded, reaching out his hand. "You're not just a teacher. You're supposed to be our Father, right? Talk to him. Talk to him like you did me. Make… make Ike believe in you again…."

God didn't look back. He took a cigarette from out of his pocket and lit it up, smoldering embers burning an incense of tobacco into the air. "That's the concept of faith, Stan…" he mumbled, and turned the corner.

The mugs rattled as Stan hit his forehead off the small glass table. When he looked up, a piece of paper caught his attention. "Fuck no," he grumbled under his breath. "He did _not_ just leave me with the bill!"

Dashing to his feet, Stan chased after the guy, rounding the same corner he did… running smack dab into a purple trench coat. He rubbed his dizzy head and slowly rose to his feet again, staring in a daze at the masked man in front of him. "Did you miss me that much, Alice?" the Mad Hatter gawked, playfully. "You come running to me, every time I'm near."

"O-okay," Stan drawled, his head hurting far too much over this nonsense. "So… God's a clown now?"

"Oh, Alice!" the jester laughed. He spun around in circles, his voice chiming. "I can take many forms! Many, many, many, many, many, many, many –"

"Enough!" Stan yelled, breaking the man off. "Apparently you can't take a form that _isn't_ annoying as hell!"

"You're so hilarious," the Mad Hatter jeered, rummaging through his dark gray messenger bag. He procured a lollypop, rainbow colored and spiraling, but Stan knocked it from his hand before the man could even ask. The candy shattered on the cold concrete below, and Stan was sure that if he wasn't wearing a mask, the man's face would have looked tragically pained.

"So God's the one who keeps leaving me all that candy," Stan mused. "You've been around me that long?"

"I've always been around, Alice," the jester jeered, leaning on his cane with the elegance of a mine. "You just don't always see me. But, you're just in time!"

"Just in time?"

"To go on the hunt!" the Mad Hatter chortled, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "To find the white rabbit, silly! We must find the white rabbit!" He skipped off, laughing all the way.

"B-but… what's the white rabbit?"

The clown halted comically mid skip, frozen in place. His porcelain mask was ever smiling a creepy smile, but his voice betrayed the guise. "I…" he started, sounding confused. "I don't know. But we must find him! We must!"

"Oh!" he exclaimed, putting his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. "There! Over there! I think I see the white rabbit! Quick, hurry, no time to lose, no time to lose at all!"

He broke off into a sprint, leaving Stan in the dust. The teen just stood there, unsure of whether or not he should follow. But if God was heading somewhere, Stan should follow, right? Right. So off he ran.


	5. The Little Things

I think the reason why there is so much dialouge in this and the chapters are really so short is because I initially intended this to be a screenplay. I wanted to record it, make it into like a mini movie or something. I might... I might just do that actually. When it's all over. I'm not really doing anything this summer, so, if I can get enough friends together, I just might film this....

**Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or any of its characters, but I do own a Summer Vacation! School's out! Wooo hooo!!!**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

**Chapter 5**

They laughed together, unabashed, as they jumped around Kenny's back yard, splashing each other with the intoxicating golden elixir. You would have thought they had drunken the beer themselves with the way they were dancing and shouting across the grass, whooping and hollering.

Kenny's parents weren't home, so it was the perfect opportunity to execute the plan he had been scheming practically all month. "You didn't have to invite me," Stan chuckled, tossing the last of the crushed aluminum cans into the recycling bin.

"Yeah, but it wouldn't be as much fun without you," Kenny pointed out, gouging off the metal cap of a Corona with a bottle opener. "Plus…" He swirled the liquid within the glass and gazed at the sunset's reflection off of it, but he didn't finish his sentence.

"C'mon," Stan whispered, nudging Kenny with his elbow and purposefully mussing up his already tousled blonde hair. "This is the last of it. Let's get it over with."

Two bottles clinking together in both of Kenny's hands and two bottles in the hands of Stan, the friends looked at each other uneasily. They both understood the severity of the situation; that their laughter and celebration that evening was only to a cover up to blanket the fear ensnaring their hearts. Without so much of a word, they tipped their wrists in unison and poured out all the alcohol, listening to it splatter and bubble on the ground below.

Kenny hurled the bottles to one side, widely missing the recycling bin, and he probably wasn't aiming for it in the first place. He just couldn't let go of those bottles fast enough, and, feeling the weight of his deeds heavy upon his chest, crumpled to his knees.

"Your dad's gonna kill you," Stan thought out loud.

"At least he won't be drunk when he does it."

"You sure this is what you wanted?"

Kenny breathed out a half hearted chuckle and ran his hand through his bangs. "This really isn't the right time to be asking that, Stan."

"Too little, too late," Stan nodded, a thin smile masking his face. "I understand."

"Not too little," Kenny corrected, shaking his head slowly. "You did more than your fair share of help." With a grunt, Kenny lifted himself from his haunches and wiped his hands on his shorts. "You'd better run, dude. If my old man shows up early and catches you here with me, he'll kill you too."

Stan swallowed and averted his gaze, knowing that was more than true. "Come with me," he offered. His hand wavered in mid air, reaching for Kenny, but not touching him; he couldn't bring himself to break that barrier. "Sleep over at my house. You know? Like we used to."

"Stan, we're Seniors," Kenny laughed. Sniffing, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, suddenly getting very serious. "You don't have to protect me."

"I know, but…" Stan started, feeling trapped, looking for an escape. An escape that they could both use. "It's just for one night, Kenny. At least one night."

The debate in Kenny's eyes was obvious. He folded his hands into his shorts' pockets. After a minute of silence, he grinned and nodded. "At least one night," he echoed, for nothing more than to just hear the words from his own mouth.

That night, they stayed up late, talked about anything and everything, listened to music, watched movies, made breakfast at three in the morning, and laughed until their sides literally hurt!

The next day, when Kenny got home, his dad beat him.

* * *

Stan was already out of breath. He had followed the Mad Hatter for so long that he had already lost track of the time. He couldn't help but feel that this was the very definition of a wild goose chase. No matter how fast he ran, the clown stayed just ahead of him, going this way and that in a seemingly unorthodox pattern.

Every once in a while – almost every ten minutes – the Mad Hatter would stop in a random place. Here, he stops in front of the movie theater. There, he crosses the street and ponders a sign advertising a new video game. Now, he laughs and dashes towards a restaurant, then a shop named Condomania, and then he zig-zags all the way back to the café where they had started this whole fiasco before sprinting toward the arcade.

Woozy and panting, Stan felt sick to his stomach, his legs like jelly and his heart racing with the rigorous activity. But the worst part of it all was that his leader would not shut the fuck up! Every time he visited a new location, he just had to make some sort of comment: "No, no, no!" "Oh my, closer!" "Is he here, is he here?" "Ah-ha! Closer still, definitely very much closer!" "Where is it, where is it, where is it, where is it?"

"I can't take this anymore!" Stan shouted at the jester, who was getting further and further away. If he didn't catch up soon, he would lose sight of the guy altogether! But he was so tired. His shout was barely loud enough to reach the man; his throat breathless, dry, and parched.

The Mad Hatter skidded to a halt and spun around in circles a few times, seemingly waiting for Stan to catch up as he petered out into an exacerbated jog. "Hurry, hurry, Alice!" he sang. "I think he's close! The white rabbit! I may actually find him this time!"

"W-wait," Stan gasped, his feet stumbling beneath him. He tripped to the floor and scraped his arms trying to brace against the fall.

The clown ignored him and sprinted around a corner, leaving Stan to lick his wounds alone. He bit his tongue against a few rude remarks and stood up. Tentatively cupping his hand to his ribs – he had a stitch in his side from all the running – he built up enough energy to propel himself around the corner. He had had it with this nonsense, not to mention that he was getting really fed up with falling down all day!

After rounding the corner, Stan slowed to a walk, then to a leisurely stroll, until finally he ended up stopping completely. He was gone. The Mad Hatter had vanished. Stan look around, breathing hard, cursing through his pants. Where the hell…? He couldn't have gotten _that _far.

Off in the distance, Stan laid his eyes on the horizon, his view made obscure by a collection of trees. Somehow, through out the chase, he had managed to weave in and out of the town to end up at the park. Whatever air was left in his lungs immediately whooshed out in astonishment. Kyle was there, sitting on a bench, right across from none other than God, smoking one of his token cigarettes.

Stan quietly inched his was towards them, keeping to the shadows, trying to make sure Kyle didn't notice him. Training his ears, Stan listened in to their heated conversation. Well… Kyle was having a heated conversation. God, on the other hand, was cool as a cucumber.

"Alright, alright," begrudged Kyle, nodding his head, but spitefully. "I'll give you that one. But what about the Jewish people and the killing of your Christian Lord, Jesus Christ?"

Stan sighed. A religious debate, of course… what else?

"What about Jesus Christ?" God shrugged, putting out the cigarette he had on the bench and licking his lips. "He wasn't anything special."

"Nothing special?!" Kyle scoffed. "Uh, hello? He was the Son of God, apparently, according to your belief. I'd say that's pretty damn special."

The teen acted as if he actually had to think about his response – purely for appearance's sake, Stan was sure. "Last time I checked, we were _all_ God's children."

"Yeah, b-but," Kyle stammered, searching for the words. Stan had never seen him so flustered. "I mean, c'mon… he… he did miracles!"

"Miracles?" the other laughed, leaning his back into the bench, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "What was Jesus' very first miracle, huh? Turning water into wine. If anything, all that proves is that the guy was probably an alcoholic."

"Do you even know the story behind that miracle?" Kyle ventured, hoping for a counter to his opponents argument. "It was at a wedding. He was doing a favor for his mom!"

"So… miracles are favors now?"

"No! That's… that's not what… that wasn't what I meant."

"Think, after all," the brunette said, giving off less of a teacherly aura and more of a competitive air. "What's the definition of a miracle? How can anyone really know all the nuances and silly requirements that go into classifying the wonders of God? Planting a tree in the park; helping a total stranger up after they've fallen; giving birth, creating life; love rising above all obstacles! Now _those_ are miracles."

Kyle sat back, taking it all in as the boy continued. "You say Jesus performed miracles just because the things he did were out of the ordinary, or rather, beyond your experience. If you go by that definition, then think of all the miracles Jesus _didn't_ perform."

Kyle was silent, crossing his arms over his chest, contemplating. "Free will…" the boy said, his voice small and yet impactful. "… is a miracle. You have that blessing bestowed upon you by God himself. A miracle that Jesus could never even fathom. He was man, and yet he was denied the basic rights endowed to all of God's creation. Jesus had no control. He was going to die on that cross, and even though he prayed to God, pleading to his father, 'Please! There must be some other way!' He couldn't change it. Jesus perform miracles? They guy couldn't even have a say on his own destiny."

The teen leaned in so that his brown bangs lighted just against Kyle's curly red hair. "You want to know what I think?" he asked in a raspy whisper. "I think that Jesus… was jealous. Of his disciples. Of the very people he was sent down to Earth to save from sin. He was envious, because even though he could call himself the Messiah… he could _never_ call himself one of them. Even the bitter sweet promised release of death was denied him."

Kyle stared on, his emerald eyes gleaming in confusion. He took several slow breaths, trying to process this radical notion. "Just…" he started, fighting against his lungs. "What kind of Christian are you?"

The teen grinned, showing off his white teeth. "I tend to avoid labeling myself under any specific denomination."

"Well," Kyle cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter. I'm Jewish, I don't believe in Jesus anyway."

"Sore loser," God quipped. "You're proud, Kyle. A trait that's going to get you into trouble one of these days if you don't rein it in."

"How did you know my –" Kyle's sentence was cut short by a loud cough that wracked his very foundation. He balled his right hand into a fist and covered his mouth with it as his face contorted with another hack. He was going into a fit that he blatantly couldn't control. God calmly reached over and patted him on the back. "I have to go," Kyle wheezed, keeping his hand up to his mouth.

As he stood, he lurched around and noticed Stan behind him. He was wide eyed and surprised to see his friend. He opened his mouth to call Stan's name, but all that came out was another bone jarring cough. Kyle double over, and during a brief lapse in his fit, looked down on his hand to reveal a splatter of blood.

Without waiting another second, Kyle withdrew into himself and pushed past Stan, running down the sidewalk.

"He came here looking for Ike," informed God, drawing Stan's attention back to him.

"I guess Ike lied about coming to the park with shorty, then," Stan mused, somewhat in a daze. His head was still foggy with thoughts of Mad Hatters and distraught friends.

"Liam," God reminded. "And no, he didn't lie; Ike was here. Kyle just fails at being inconspicuous. A ninja he is not. Ike saw him coming a mile away and –" he snapped his fingers and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "Skedaddled."

"What's the matter with him?" Stan asked, referring to Kyle. "Is he sick?"

"Ooh!" God exclaimed, rubbing his hands together like a conniving villain. "Let's find out!" He snatched hold of Stan's shoulders and spun him around, pushing him forcefully towards Kyle's house.

* * *

"You want me… to give this letter… to Patty Nelson?" Cartman was shifting his significant weight from side to side, nervously scanning the noisey hallway for potential threats.

"Not so loud, not so loud!" he half screamed, half whispered, shoving Stan into the lockers. Stan didn't care too much about the physical push – if you could call it that; it wasn't like Cartman could hurt him anyway – it was more the blatant manipulation that offended him.

"Believe it or not, fat ass," Stan huffed, too preoccupied with his own issues to really give a shit about Cartman's. "But I'm not wrapped around your finger like some. Why are you so interested in Patty Nelson, anyway?"

"Because, dude, have you seen her rack?" Cartman raved, using his hands to mime squeezing her. Stan cleared his throat and fumbled with the envelope at his side.

"N-not really," he mumbled, averting his gaze. "I'm still hung up over Wendy dumping me… again. I haven't looked at any other girls in a while. It hurts too much."

Cartman stretched his arms and yawned loudly. "Oh… oh, God, I'm sorry," he apologized, completely fake. "I know your fucked up love life and Wendy not putting out and all is _so_ fascinating… but I really only care about you giving this note to Patty Nelson."

"If you're so infatuated," Stan mocked, letting Cartman's words roll off him. "Then why don't you give it to her yourself?"

"Because, this is the way it has to be, Stan!" Cartman exploded, shoving him again. Stan barely moved, and Cartman grunted in defeat. "Now, if you're gonna be a dick about it, I'll take my ten bucks elsewhere, maybe make Kyle do it or something."

Stan furrowed his brow angrily and brushed past the bastard, being sure to shoulder bump him… painfully. Cartman backed away and rubbed the sore spot. "Keep your fucking money," Stan spat, and searched out Patty Nelson.

When he found her, she was a little… busy. With Clyde Donovin. In the janitor's closet. Sucking face. And possibly something else. When he noticed this, Stan took a step back, listening to the magic happen. This wouldn't be so startling if Patty Nelson wasn't also going out with a totally different eleventh grader. This girl was a whore. Stan hated Cartman's guts, but they were still friends at least. He couldn't let him go out with this slut and let his heart get broken.

Halfway back down the hall, Stan meandered to a stop. He looked at the envelope in his hand for a long time until finally, he sighed. Returning to the janitor's closet, Stan waited for Patty to be done and flagged her down. She was a bit suspicious at first that Stan had been waiting for her, but he waved her doubts off, passively.

"Cartman wanted me to give this to you," he said, as if rehearsed, and handed the letter over.

One class period later, Cartman had a girlfriend. Two days later, he lost his virginity. Four hours later, he discovered he had herpes. One minute later, Cartman was single again.


	6. When Dominoes Fall Into Place

I condensed the last two chapters into this one to wrap up the story because I have another idea I want to start work on. Plus, it's Sunday today, so I thought it would be some dramatic irony, you know?

I'm not sure how you guys are gonna like this one; it's really up in the air. I mean, I like it because it expresses my personal views about God. But... story wise, there are some huge holes in this plot, things that go unresolved, a whole bunch of shit. All in all, I'm glad I wrote this, but it's definitely not one of my best. A mistake I shall remedy for future fanfictions.

[Edit: I _may_ have rushed through this ending, and it _may_ be crappy. And when I say 'may,' I actually mean I _did_ rush through this, and it _is_ crappy.]

**Disclaimer: I own a great love for feedback in the form of reviews, be them good or bad. However, I don't own South Park or any characters there in. Nor do I own God. But, you have to admit, that would be bitchin!!**

Enjoy!

**I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic**

**Chapter 6**

Kyle's front door was unsettlingly unlocked. All they hat to do was tap the door and it swung freely open. Stan's nerves were shot for no reason at all, his heart pumping so hard he imagined it bursting through his rib cage. And the dark clouds forming over their heads were not helping to calm the mood. He could hear voices up the stairs: Kyle's and Ike's. But he didn't step inside the house.

There was a flash of lightning and clap of thunder. Stan nearly jumped out of his skin and groped his hand to his side. When he got hold of God's vest, he tightened his fist around it, clinging to him with unexplainable terror. "What?" the teen haughtily growled, as if nothing was wrong. He struggled against Stan's hand, trying to collect a cigarette from his pocket.

"I just realized something," Stan proposed, his voice nearly a whisper. "You really only show up to people when something really good happens… or when something really bad happens. And if I were to make a judgment solely on the weather and this feeling in the pit of my stomach right now… I'd have to say you're not visiting me for something pleasant."

God wrenched away from him with a jolt and lit his cigarette. "You worry too much, Stan," he mumbled through his teeth. "Before, weren't you eager to see your friend, Kyle? What's stopping you now? Besides, the weather's sorta on… autopilot right now. Nothing to get all up in arms about."

Stan gulped and took a step inside, but faltered at the base of the staircase. He glanced back to God on last time. With a semi-cheerful sigh, God approached and slapped his free hand reassuringly onto Stan's back. "If it's any consolation," he offered, "that feeling in your stomach? It's not fear. It's _concern_. Humans always confuse the two for each other."

Kyle coughed from his room and it resonated sickeningly through the walls of the house. Stan puffed out his chest and cautiously ascended the flight, even though his legs felt like lead. The voices weren't raised, but they were getting louder as Stan got closer. He stared at the crack in the open door, not even an inch wide, light illuminating only a segment of the hallway. Through the sliver, Stan could hear his friend's voice clearly.

"You had bacon for breakfast?" Kyle was asking. If his voice wasn't so raspy, he probably would have screamed it.

"Yeah." That was Ike, nonchalant, uncaring. "Didn't you smell it when you got up?"

"Ike, why do you do these things?" Kyle's words were coated with uncertainty. Or was that hurt? "Are you _trying_ to piss our parents off?"

"What about you, Kyle? Why do you do the things you do?"

"No, Ike, answer the question."

"No, you answer my question." Ike's voice was surprisingly calm, but the force of his command was still powerful. "You already can't eat certain foods to begin with. Why would you willingly deprive your diet? It doesn't make sense."

"Because it's our religion, Ike!"

"Enough with religion! I'm sick of having a martyr for a brother! I'm sick of how controlling you are of me. You used to be fine with my choices; you would even defend me in front of mom and dad before. Whatever happened to _that_ brother? Where did he go? This pale shell of a boy isn't what I would call living, and it's all the result of wasting hours away on some old Torah. Why did you do this to yourself?"

"You know why I had to!" Kyle shouted, his voice cracking. He instantly erupted into another brief fit of hacking coughs and had to audibly take a drink to clear his throat. When he spoke again, he was crying. Really crying. "You know why. I can't let that happen to our family. I can't do that to our parents. I can't do that to _you_! Mom and dad… they already have one son going to Hell! I won't… I can't allow you to go too!"

There was the sound of movement as Ike got closer to Kyle. He lowered his voice in an attempt to disarm his brother. "You aren't going to Hell," he whispered, trying to reason with his weeping sibling.

"Ike."

"There is no Hell."

"Please, let's not have this conversation again, I don't want to fight."

"There is no Heaven."

"Ike! I'm fucking sick, not now, p-please!"

"There. Is. No. God." They were both getting angry now.

"Don't say that, don't _fucking_ say that!"

"I don't believe in those places –"

"I don't want little brother getting hurt!"

"I don't believe in God –"

"Ike, I'm trying to help you!"

"And I don't believe in you."

Ike burst from the room, nearly slamming the door right into Stan. Instead of stopping to apologize, he never broke his stride, pumping his arms heavily as he dashed towards the stairs. The house echoed with his footsteps as he clamored down the steps. He got halfway down when he lifted his head and saw the teenager at the bottom of the staircase.

He stopped short, already breathing hard, arrested in place merely by the other boy's gleaming gray eyes. He took shallow puff of air and lowered his cigarette, his face dark with the backdrop of thunder clouds. "Run, Ike," he mumbled, thunder punctuating his command. Ike hesitantly came down the rest of the way, and the teen let him pass by, leaving only enough room between them for him to squeeze by. Ike cringed away with mysterious terror as they almost touched each other.

"Run, run, run," God huffed, and Ike stared at him, wide eyed and confused. "Well… it's what you're good at, isn't it?" He turned his back and lifted his hand again to his mouth to take another drag. "Run, run, run…."

Ike clenched his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. Without wasting another second, he raced from the house, out into the drizzling rain.

"Stan!" Kyle gawked as his friend emerged into the doorway. "W-when did you…? How did…? H-how much have you heard?"

"What's wrong with Ike?" Stan asked, avoiding the question, feeling that it didn't need to be answered.

Kyle contorted his face into a teary scowl, looking away. He was sitting limply in his swivel chair, right beside his desk. Sprawled out over the table and even the bed were pages of papers and books with indiscernible titles. He tried to breathe slowly, but his lungs trembled and caused him to gasp and cough again. "Ike is a staunch atheist," he explained, remnant tears streaking down his cheeks. "He claims that I forced everything on him. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to make things better."

"You know teenagers," Stan said, trying to console his friend, but couldn't bring himself to enter into the room. "The more you try to convince them of things, the more they reject it."

"But he made this decision before all that," Kyle stuttered, his voice warbling. "And I used to be a good brother, and supported him. But… things have changed."

"You're going to hell," nodded Stan. "So you're trying to make sure that your brother doesn't as well. But why do you think you're going to die and go to Hell."

Kyle smiled weakly, a mask. "Because I'm an abomination, Stan. In both your religion, and mine." Before Stan could ask anything else, Kyle leaned forward in his seat, hacking up a lung. He coughed so hard that his throat went raw, and blood blossomed from his mouth.

Stan stomped down the stairs, his brow furrowed in anger. "Hey," God greeted, finishing off his cigarette. He was cut off when Stan punched him square in the shoulder as hard as he could. The kid wobbled backwards, if only because his human form couldn't stop itself from doing so. "What's with the aggression, Stan?"

"Fix him."

"Excuse me?"

Stan drew in closer and lowered his voice into a growl. "Fix him. Do a miracle. You're God, aren't you? So heal Kyle!"

"Weren't you listening when Kyle and I were talking in the park? Miracles are –"

"Don't give me any of that bullshit!" Stan screamed, brandishing his fist threateningly. "What use are you if you don't ever do anything?!"

God's face dimmed and he let out a long, pensive sigh. He glanced outside, into the pouring rain and blinked. "Come," he started, softly. "Take a closer walk with me."

"It's raining," Stan said, pointing out the obvious. "Why can't we just stay here and talk?"

"Because that would defeat the purpose of _walking_, Stan." God was already out the door, knowing undoubtedly that Stan would follow.

It was pouring so hard that Stan was already drenched when he caught up. Lightning arched across the heavens and all other light was blotted from the sky by dark, foreboding thunder clouds. God was walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, soaked to the bone, just like Stan. They trudged through the puddles together for a while before God finally spoke up.

"What's the use of it, Stan?" he asked, dismally. He sounded so human. So childish. Almost hurt.

"What's the use of what?"

"Of helping people." Stan pondered this, wondering why God would ask such a thing. Why _not_ help people?

"Well…" he started, making sure all of his words were chosen carefully. "They're your children, aren't they? You love them. You want what's best for them. I suppose… hurting them would be something you'd want to avoid. Why purposely hurt somebody you love? That seems heartless to me."

"Where was your heart, then?" God asked, not looking at Stan.

"What? When?"

"When you gave Patty Nelson that letter." God hunched over, his bangs covering his eyes. "You knew how she was. You knew Cartman would get hurt. And yet you did it anyway. Was it because you hate him? Was it because he deserved it?"

"I don't think…" Stan muttered, getting lost in thought.

"It was because he was your friend, wasn't it? You knew eventually that Eric would be exposed to such hurt. You knew that even though it seemed like the wrong thing to do, it was a lesson that he would learn sooner or later. So you chose sooner rather than later. To help him get used to the pain. To help him heal faster."

"What are you talking about?" Stan questioned, following just a few paces behind the teenager, feeling his shoes get drenched right down to his socks.

"People die, Stan," God continued, not even humoring Stan's curiosity. "I know this. You know this. So, why don't I just stop people from being born? Keep them from the pain of death forever?"

"That's stupid!" Stan yelled, getting frustrated. "Then no one would live. No one would experience anything!"

"You're saying that people enjoy life, even knowing that at the end of the day, they'll just go home and get beaten by their fathers?"

Stan ground to a halt. "Kenny…" he remembered.

"You knew that no matter when Kenny got home, his dad would harm him. And yet, you pleaded with him to stay over night. Just one night. Let him enjoy himself before the inevitable end."

"I don't understand any of this!" Stan shouted against the wind, throwing his hands up into the air in defeat.

"Everything is a domino, Stan," God reminded, keeping his back to him, not looking in his direction. "Even the littlest things can have a gigantic impact. Something as little as helping a disenchanted girl pick up her books off the floor."

"Bebe, b-but…"

"Did you know, Stan," God called over the storm, finally facing the boy. "That if you hadn't stopped to help Bebe with her papers, she would have missed her bus."

"So?"

"By missing her bus, Bebe would have called Wendy for a ride, and would have not gotten home until 3:30. That would be 21 minutes and 15 seconds _after_ her father had died from a fatal heart attack. But he didn't die. Because Bebe was home in time to call an ambulance. Because she didn't miss her bus. Because you helped her pick up her books."

Stan was speechless and limp, his arms hanging to his sides like a rag doll. His hair was drenched in rain drops that skittered into his eyes. But the irritation of the water isn't what caused him to cry.

"I said before, Stan," God continued, offering his hands up to the other in a friendly gesture. "You do good. Even if you don't know it. By simply standing up to a friend's irate, irrational parents, you saved Craig from committing suicide. His talk with the councilor later led to a psychiatric meeting in which he was diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder, explaining why he couldn't remember the things he had done to get him in trouble… keeping him from being expelled from school."

"Why are you telling me this?" Stan wanted to cry. But his tongue wouldn't cooperate. He was too shell shocked.

"You want me to 'heal' Kyle?" scoffed God. "Just like I 'healed' Craig, Bebe, and the others? Why can't you heal him, Stan? You've saved an 'abomination' before, what makes this one any different?"

"Way back then," Stan recalled in a daze. "Red… he was… he was…."

"He trusted you," God smiled. "With a secret that he couldn't share with anyone else. With a secret that he feared if he asked _me_ to forgive… that I would say no. You're just as real as I am, Stan. And maybe… a little bit more."

"What are you saying?"

"People like Ike don't believe in me," God said, shrugging his shoulders in a dilapidated sigh. "And I can't force them to believe. Why would I? I gave you free will, remember. It's all your choice. But people tend to forget that they're dominoes in the game of life. There is a real chance… a _real_ chance… that one day, nobody will believe in God anymore. And I? Heh, well… I will cease to exist."

"But you're God," Stan said, stumbling over the words. "You're eternal. You can't just not exist!"

"Existence is a state of perspective, Stan. Didn't you know that? What kind of God would I be if absolutely no one believed in me? I wouldn't be a God, that's what. Oh, sure, I would exist. And I could wipe the board clean, start over, all that jazz. But it wouldn't make you believe in me. And the fact of the matter is…" God swallowed, his gray eyes sad and grim. "You keep saying how much you need me… when in reality… I need _you_. I need you to believe in me, Stan. Because, without faith, without belief, without people to say I'm God… I'm not."

He turned around and started walking again, but Stan's legs were too tired and his mind reeling too much to follow. "If people don't believe in me, I'm nothing," God called back over his shoulder. "If people don't believe in you, Stan… _you're_ nothing." He waved a lazy wave, his entire body dripping with the cold, refreshing rain. "Maybe that's something you can work on."

When Stan looked up from the ground, he was gone. Disappeared. Vanished. "That can't be all," he mused, becoming furious. "That can't be all, you fucker!"

Stan took off running, nearly slipping in the rain. He looked anywhere and everywhere for God, but couldn't find that little bastard. He checked the park. He checked the coffee house. He even checked at his own house. But he was no where to be found. God was invisible to Stan once again. Until…

He skidded around a corner, looking into an alleyway. At first, Stan gasped at the sight of him, but he quickly regained his composure. With heavy feet, he strode right up to the Mad Hatter and his creepy porcelain mask, waving his finger at him. "Alright, listen here," he commanded. "I don't know what you're trying to prove, but I want some straight answers! Now tell me –"

Stan never even saw the cane coming. It was whipped right across the side of his head, and he spat blood into the pools of rain water about his feet. But the Mad Hatter didn't stop there. Blow after blow, he smashed the cane into Stan's body until he crumpled to the floor in a beaten heap, gasping for air.

"Where is the white rabbit!?" the clown shouted, his voice, gruff and sinister, betraying his coyly smiling mask. When Stan didn't answer, he threw down his bloodied cane and seized Stan by his collar, lifting him up off of his feet and slamming him into the alley wall. Lighting surged over head, casting dark shadows all around them. "Where. Is. The RABBIT! Tell me!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Stan wheezed.

"I've been searching all this time, and yet I've never found him!" To emphasize his point, the Mad Hatter crashed Stan's back into the wall again with another forceful push, knocking the very wind out of his lungs. "I know you know where he is! If you don't tell me, I'll fucking kill you right here! Where is the white rabbit!?"

"Get off of me!" Stan shouted, swiping his hand up and landing a sucker punch straight to the man's face. The porcelain mask cracked and was unhinged as the jester staggered backwards. As lighting flashed in the clouds above, the mask slipped off from its perch and shattered on the asphalt below.

He felt his heart stop beating. That hair. Those eyes. That maniacal grin. It was… it was like looking into some grotesque mirror. There, dressed as the Mad Hatter, was Stan himself.

Before he was even able to ask, the clone jabbed his fist directly into Stan's face, followed by a knee into his stomach. Stan dropped to the floor like a lead weight, clutching his ribs in agony. "W-who," he coughed through the pain. "Who are you?"

"His name is Satan," God answered, walking slowly into the alleyway, looking on with indifference. "Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, the Devil, the Evil One, the Beast. He goes by many names. But the one he most commonly goes by…" God pointed one deft finger at Stan. "Is yours."

"You see, there's no such thing as Satan, really," God explained, folding his hands into his jeans' pockets. "It's just a name. A disguise you humans have given to your own sin. You never could get over blaming other people for your mistakes and short comings. 'The Devil made me do it' is the oldest and cheapest trick in the book."

"Why d-does… d-does he –"

"Look like you?" God finished, raising his eyebrows. "Because he is you. He is the very manifestation of your sin. Everyone has one; theirs just don't take such a memorable form as yours did. He is all of your anger, all of your hate, all of your doubt, and – in your case especially, Stan – all of your confusion."

"Why did you do this to me?" Stan cried at the top of his lungs, trying to back away from his attacker. "Why did you do this to me?!"

"All I did was gave you life, Stan!" God shouted back with a shrug. "_You_ took it from there. The reason he's so powerful… is because _you_ made him that way."

Stan trembled, reaching out his hand, shaking so badly he could barely keep it straight. "Help me," he whispered, his mouth bleeding, his tears mingling with the blood. "I can't… I can't do this by myself. I just can't. Just can't."

God stared at the hand, but didn't make any move to take it. "God answers all your prayers, Stan," he said, toneless. "But sometimes the answer is no." He turned his back to him and Stan let his hand sink to the floor with a thud. "Do you really think I would have given you life… without also giving you all the tools you needed to deal with whatever it had to throw at you? C'mon, Stan. Give me some fucking credit here." And with that, he walked away again.

Stan got to his feet, barely, but the Mad Hatter was already on top of him again. "Where is the white rabbit?" he shouted, his voice no longer muffled by the mask, his eyes insane. "Tell me! I must find him!"

"Why?" Stan shouted back, shoving him away with all his might. "Why are you searching for something you've never seen before?"

"Because it's everything!" the other responded, enraptured. "Everything I always wanted!"

"Then what is it?!"

The Mad Hatter froze. His eyes were wide in thought and his pupils constricted so that his irises were almost entirely ocean blue. Stan could see the reflection of the lighting in those eyes. "I…" he started. "I don't know. But I've seen glimpses of him. Glimpses of him everywhere! He's here, I know he is! I just have to find him!"

"Haven't you ever considered that this white rabbit is everything you want, not everything you need?" The clone didn't reply. "The reason you can never find it is because it isn't there! You already have everything! A good home, a nice family, friends that love you! Why go on this never ending hunt?"

"_Because I'm scared_!" he shouted over top of Stan. His body was quaking now, and hushed tears fell like rain from his eyes. "Because what if I can't find him? What if all this time I've spent was wasted? I have to have something to show for it!" He clutched at his head with his gloved hands, his teeth clenched in a horrified visage. "What if I'm a failure? What if I can't fix any of this? What if everything I've done up until now was all for nothing? How could I live with myself if I was nothing but a burden to the people I loved?!"

"But by ignoring your friends by trying to find yourself, you _are_ being a burden to them," Stan tried to reason. "It's me. I… I am the white rabbit. I already have everything I'll ever need right here in my heart. I don't need to go on some wild goose chase to find what I don't even know I'm looking for. You've been looking for yourself this whole time. And here I am. You can stop searching now. You can start living."

The Mad Hatter's eyes were hazy with confusion. He looked out into the street and pointed with one limp finger. "But there," he whispered, broken. "I see a white rabbit." Stan glance in the direction was gesturing toward and saw a sign for a new game that Stan had always wanted. "And there," the clone continued, pointing again, but this time down the road toward the coffee shop. "Another white rabbit."

"Those are just things," Stan explained, wiping the blood from his chin. "Things we want. But things we don't need. If we work hard and play our cards right, we can get those things. But they can wait. We don't have to chase them."

"And the boy," the Mad Hatter continued, significantly more calm than he had ever been before. "With crimson red hair… stunning green eyes… sitting in his room… all alone. Can we chase him?"

Stan breathed slowly, trying to find the right words. "Why chase something you already have?"

The Mad Hatter nodded, his lips forming a thin but genuine smile. He opened his messenger bag and took out a lollypop, rainbow colored and spiraling. He held it out slowly and timidly. "Are you…" he started, sounding very sane. "Are you ready to accept one, now?"

Stan smiled along with him and took the lollypop from his grasp. "Thank you," they both whispered together. "Thank you… so much…."

Stan was sitting in the very front pew. It was now Sunday morning, and church had already been let out. But Stan lingered by himself, tracing his fingers along the cuts and bruises around his face. He had a tough time explaining those to his mother, but for right now, he was content to just sit and gaze at the shimmering golden cross on the alter.

He heard a soft click as a lighter was started and already began to smell smoke. He grinned warmly to himself and leaned back into the pew. "Who invited you?" he spat, jokingly.

"Hey, this is technically my house, right?" God chuckled, standing right next to Stan. "I should think I could come and go as I pleased." He took a deep drag and let out a stream of smoke. "The real question is: why are you still here? Mass dismissed. Get it? Mass dismissed? It's a play on words!"

"I'm not one for puns," Stan snorted. "Sarcasm and faggy poetry, remember?"

God nodded and tapped some of his ash into the aisle before putting the cigarette to his lips again. "Kyle's going to make a full recovery by the end of the week," he informed. "And Ike did some thinking last night. I think he's finally tired of running. He's still going to be an atheist, and that's fine with me. But at least he and his brother will make up."

"Why did you do that?" Stan asked.

"Eh… everyone deserves a miracle every once in a while, don't you think?"

"I still don't understand why you've appeared to me," Stan admitted.

"Because everyone is a domino, Stan," God said again. "Every little thing leads to another, to another, to another, until eventually they all build up and cause huge, mind boggling change!"

"So I'm not really that special, am I?"

"As far as dominoes go, you're very special." God waved his hands around dramatically. "Most people only cause the fall of the next domino. You, Stan, are unique in that you initiate, not one… not two… but innumerable numbers of dominoes. By human standards, you Stan, are as normal and boring as they come. But in the eyes of the grand design… you're the start of it all."

"It all?"

"Now, I can't tell you that," God mumbled, as if trying to keep it all on the down low. "Big, big stuff we're talking here. I will tell you, that you won't live long enough to see the fruit of your labor. And you may not even notice that your changing the world; little things, remember? And you're name will never show up in history books, and no one will ever know what you did for the world. But the reason I showed up to you, and all the people in the past who have ever been multiple dominoes like yourself, is to prove to you that I'll always be there."

"But…" Stan started. "I don't understand. All you did was… teach me that you _won't_ be there when I need you most. How is that supposed to help me?"

God smiled a smile that shone almost as bright as the sun, and he tapped out his cigarette insolently on the pew behind him. "Hey, look, Stan," he breathed. "A white rabbit."

The little animal hopped up the aisles of pews from the alter, its fur of the purest white with a sheen that could not be duplicated. It twitched its rabbit nose and swished its rabbit tail before continuing on its path down the aisle, hopping contentedly past Stan in his seat. God leaned over and whispered in Stan's ear. "You, uh… you gonna chase after it?"

"Nah," Stan said with a bemused grin. "Wouldn't know what to do with it if I caught it."

Stan's phone rang, and he opened it without even looking at the caller ID. "Kyle," he announced, beaming. "Yeah, of course I can come over today! No, I don't have a church thing if you don't have a synagogue thing. Good. Get that Rocky Road ready, I'll be over in an hour. Yeah. Of course Ike can join! Wait… what was that? No, really, what did you just say? Ha ha… thought so. Oh and Kyle? Love you, too…"

"C'mere, buddy," God groaned as he leaned down and picked the bunny up by his ears. Carefully placing him in his arms, God flipped the hair from out of his face one last time and stared down on the other. "Mean, old Stan here doesn't want to play with us anymore. Off to bigger and better things. Well, I wouldn't say _bigger_… if you catch my drift."

His footsteps echoed through the chapel as he left towards the front door. Just as he was about to leave, Stan watched as the little bunny peeked its head over God's shoulder and wiggled its nose lovingly. Stan couldn't help but smile and think that maybe… just maybe… that was one white rabbit he _would_ chase after.

Someday.

But for today… there was Rocky Road.

**The End**

* * *

Tweek quivered and twitched with the triple latte in his hand, a constant surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins as the caffeine held its iron influence over his body. He took a sip and breathed a sigh of relief, thanking God that church was over and he could go to the amusement park with Craig, Thomas, Token, and Clyde, just as they had all planned. This was going to be a good day!

"Hey, Tweek!" a teen just behind him shouted, and the blonde nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted in surprise, holding on tighter to his coffee cup.

"Close, _close_," the teenager said, wrapping one arm around Tweek's shoulders and swishing his brown bangs out of his Athena gray eyes. "Come," he said with a playful smirk. "Take a closer walk with me…."


End file.
